Jealousy
by Johix
Summary: Request for applepierush, who wanted to read about 'jealous Holmes' and 'clueless Watson' (thank you for the idea :))
1. Chapter 1

"Really? And where do you live now?"

"Well, I share a flat at Baker Street."

"So you've got a flatmate then. How is he?"

"He's a... very... peculiar person."

"_Peculiar? _ You mean something like old Reece?"

"No-o," I laughed. I had to, because I remembered our old college professor, who always came terribly late to class and after chatting with whiteboard for the rest of the lesson, he announced that no one of us (of the students) shall become a great dentist, and then he shuffled away, "Nothing like that... In fact, he's even more curios. You could meet him, actually, if you would stay a bit longer. That is why I'm here. Sherlock-"

"Sherlock? What a strange name..."

"I can't see anything strange about my name," a sonorous voice, known only to the one of them, suddenly cut their conversation.

"Holmes, you're here," the man, who had recognized the voice, turned his head.

"Well, of course I am here – six o'clock, as I have said."

The Detective's gaze fell upon the other man now: "My name is Sherlock Holmes, sir. And yours?"

"Doctor Alexander Campbell, sir. I am an old friend of this remarkable man here."

"Oh really?" the thin man wondered and turned back at his... friend.

"Yes. Alexander and I were on the same collage years ago. Then he went to America and I-"

"Went to war and got shot," Holmes ended nonchalantly.

"I was offering you to go with me, remember?" said Alexander, sounding like he was blaming himself for Watson's wound, and looked at him with said expression on his face: "But you wanted to go to Netley," he sighed.

"I did indeed. (...) I wonder what it would be like if I had gone with you that time."

"Well, you would never meet _me_, Watson."

"You're right, Holmes," he agreed, and with amused smile he added: "Oh, I should have gone."

Sherlock frowned slightly at this remark, for he was glad he had met Watson (as Doctor Campbell had said, he was a really remarkable man and the Detective was grateful to have him by his side), and if John was not, it would be a very unpleasant information for him.

"Watson, the concert starts in thirty minutes, we should go. I'm sorry Doctor Campbell, but I have to take this man from you. I'm sure it won't be such a problem since you've got an appointment with some elderly lady... your mother possibly?"

"My... aunt, actually..." the Doctor looked surprised. "Sorry, how did you know?"

Sherlock Holmes smirked with contentment: "I can see a small velvet case, such as jewels are given into, making a crease on your pocket. And from the fact you've put it there, instead of carrying it in your briefcase, I assume it does not matter to you to make impress so much as hand it over to someone else. But still, the velvet is very nice and it is well known that China trade with United States more then with our Kingdom, so you've probably brought it from America like a present for someone here in London. Also I do not presume you'd be meeting some young lady when you've basically just arrived. And judging by your answer – I was right."

"Please excuse him, Alexander. He is always like this."

"By Jove! So this is what you've meant by peculiar..."

. . .

They started to talk again like Holmes was not even there, and you should know he wasn't very happy about that.

"Watson," he tapped on John's shoulder.

"Oh, yes! The concert – of course. Sorry, Alexander, we really have to go now."

"Sure. But we will see each other, won't we?"

"Absolutely. (...) Holmes?" he turned to the man, who was so keen to go to hear Paganini's Capriccio, "There is no case tomorrow, or am I wrong?"

"No. The Yard is now surprisingly self-sufficient."

"Hm. So you could manage without me I hope?"

"Yes, I think so. Mrs. Hudson will keep me company."

"All right then," quitted the Doctor. "Alexandr, where shall we meet?"

"I think you know it, John."

The short man lowered his eyebrows and glanced away and back as he was trying to figure out the meaning of the previous sentence... "The conker tree?" he tried at last, when he remembered the place where they used to meet after classes.

"Definitely."

. . .

"And John," the man called after his friend, who was now walking off with some tall stranger by his side.

"Yes?" he turned back.

"Never use a cold stethoscope!"

Watson laughed, for it was an old personal joke of theirs: "Only if it's summer!" and waived him goodbye.

. . .

When we arrived home I was still honestly surprised by Holmes's today's verbosity.

All the way back from concert he was asking me about Alexander and things connected with him.

I did not know if I should be pleased that he's so interested in my friend, or disconcerted. Because when Sherlock Holmes was interested in someone, it never was so simple.

. . .

"And what was he doing in America, then?"

"Practising, maybe? I don't know, Holmes, I've told you. But I think I'll learn about it tomorrow – and with details I presume."

"Right. Of course."

"Holmes, you... it seems to me you are behaving oddly today. Are you sure you'll be alright?" Sherlock's behaviour was really weird (well, weirder then usually) and John had no need to find him with a needle stabbed in his elbow pit, when he would return from the meeting with Alexander. "Maybe I should stay here tomorrow..."

"Yes, maybe," Holmes mumbled rather for himself. "But no!" suddenly there was the typical energy of his, "Do not listen to me, Watson. I'm just a little bit bored, my dear friend. Nothing more. You should go. You haven't seen each other for... ten years was it? And therefore you _shall_ go," he ended the speech and grabbed his Stradivarius, starting to strum it by his long bony fingers.


	2. Chapter 2

I spent a wonderful day with my old fellow, mostly by talking about the past, filled with merriment. Then about him and his adventures on continent, about me and _my_ _adventures _with Holmes, and about things that we – me and Alexander – shared.

When I got back at the Baker Street I found my flatmate – as usual – wrapped in one of his many dressing gowns, sitting in his armchair with closed eyes, his knees under the sharp chin of his.

He did not say anything to greet me, but his eye lids trembled slightly, so I knew he was aware of my present.

"Holmes?" I addressed him, for I noticed the untouched breakfast, still lying on the dining table, covered with newspapers from half.

"Hmm...?" he uttered an indistinct mutter.

"You didn't eat anything again?" I was not even waiting for an answer: "And why is it still here then?"

"Mrs. Hudson left it there. She said I need to... eat," Holmes explained to me bitterly. "But the only think I _do_ _need_," he put a considerable emphasis into those last two words, "is to _think_!"

"And what do you need to think about, my grumpy friend?"

"That's none of your business, Watson."

"Fine," oh I will not let that man to spoil my good humour, "I shall be in my room, if you would need me."

. . .

_I do need you,_ thought the Detective (_but will you be here for me?)._

He was not hungry, nor thirsty, or tired – he was alarmed. And even he did not want to concede it, the source of his disquiet was none other than certain Mr. Campbell.

As Sherlock always had the powers to see – _observe_ – more than everyone else, the things he'd noticed about that Doctor were not very gratifying. And particularly with regard to how he behaved towards Watson. The way he looked at him...

_Dilated pupils. Conspicuous touching on John's arm. Running hand through hair. Smiling. Tilting head backwards. _

The Detective was aware that his friend was someone special. Someone incredibly important in his life. Someone who he could maybe–

"_Enough!_" he cut his own thoughts with distinct cry. _Enough of that!_ And reached for the Persian slipper.

. . .

"May I open the window?" I asked, for when I come to our shared room there was only a smoke and an unclear silhouette of man, who was producing it.

It seemed like Sherlock Holmes had used every single pipe of his – and you may know there were a lot of them – within two hours.

"If you have the need," he replied disinterestedly.

"Thank you."

I opened it, letting the smoke be replaced by a pleasant evening air, and seated myself in armchair opposite the Sherlock's.

. . .

"So," he said after a long while, discontinuing the silence between us, "any... news about your former classmate?"

"Yes. Many I should say." It was clear he wanted me to expand, but I could not resist but teasing him slightly with such a brief answer.

"Hm," he uttered curtly without satisfaction, and rose up from his seat at once. But as I had learned subsequently, it was only because he wanted to take his cigarettes from shelf, which he could not reach in a sitting position.

"Holmes, don't you think you had enough?"

He made no reply.

Well, yes I should be glad he'd choose the cigarettes and not the morocco case, lying on the mantelpiece, but everyone has only one lungs.

"I'm telling you as a medical man, for I am – to some extant – answerable for your constitution."

"Pah!" that was the magnificent answer of the world's only consulting detective. He lit the cigarette, pulled on it, and with long sigh of relief that the nicotine was giving him, he sank back into his armchair.

"If you would tell me as a comrade, perhaps I would listen."

"Do not play games with me, Holmes! You know very well that I do care about your health. And since you don't, I'm probably the only one who does."

"Yes, you're right, Watson. I'm sorry."

"You can express your regret by going with me to have a lunch this Saturday. Alexander invited us."

"You mean _you_?"

"No, my dear Holmes – _us_. He would be flattered to see you too, as he said to me."

Holmes raised his eyebrows in surprise and cocked his head a little, but when he realized he was showing some emotion, his face quickly returned to the previous dispassionate mask.

"Then I shall be flattered too," he said at last, and crushed the burning end of cigarette against the fireplace bottom.


	3. Chapter 3

"Good morning Mrs. Hudson."

"Good Doctor Watson."

"Did Mr. Holmes leave us early?" I asked, for our landlady was caring only one breakfast on the tray.

"Oh no, he's still sleeping. But yesterday he ordered to me not to make him any breakfast... I'm not aware of his departure."

"Really?" I wondered. It was not so usual for him to stay in bed, but when he did that, he was capable to remain there till midday, "_Sleeping_? Curious isn't it?"

"Yes, it is. But it's good for him, don't you think?"

"Of course. For man like Holmes, any sleep is good."

"At least, he won't command us. Sometimes he can be very... I don't want to say rude, Doctor Watson, but you surely know what I mean."

"I do Mrs. Hudson, and you should know you have my immense admiration for tolerating it."

"Thank you my dear," she smiled upon me, and was on the point of leaving when suddenly Holmes's voice was heard from bedroom: "Don't make such a martyress from yourself Mrs. Hudson. And do vanish at once."

"See?" she looked at me with raised eyebrows.

"_Immediately!_"

"Oh!" the landlady tossed her head upwards and leaved.

. . .

When the door clicked shut after her, my friend come out from his chambers with dishevelled hair and with the shabbiest dressing gown that he could possibly had found in his wardrobe, carelessly draped over his shoulders.

"Morning, Watson."

"What on earth did that woman do to you, Homes that you are treating her like this?"

"Honestly Watson I–"

"Mr. Holmes?"

"_Mrs. Hudson!_ Haven't I told you to vanish?!" he shouted.

But she was so used to it, that it made no strong impression on her: "A telegram, sir."

"Oh," his indignation seems to be gone suddenly. "Give it to me," and he briskly took the telegram from her hands...

"Ha!" an enthusiastic cry escaped his lips.

"What is it, Holmes?"

"A case, my dear Watson. A case!" His whole body sparkled with joy. "Oh, Mrs. Hudson!" he cried out and took our landlady by her arms, kissing her on the cheek: "Thank you!"

"Y-you are welcome, Mr. Holmes," she stammered in discomfiture caused by Sherlock's sudden behaviour.

"But now _do_ please disappear."

"Well," she sighed, "One can not expect much, can he?" and walked away again.

. . .

"Come quickly, my friend – the cap is waiting. Hampshire is waiting!"

. . .

"I'm afraid, Watson, we will have to make a little visit on The Royal Victoria Hospital, so prepare to meet some of your former colleagues."

"We do? And what brings you to this conclusion?"

"Oh Watson, haven't you read the telegram?"

"Well, actually I only managed to shoot a quick look at it, for you were so hurried to leave immediately and–"

"So it didn't stick in your mind that the victim is a certain Mr. Green – a surgeon? And where else in Hampshire you could find a man like this then in Netley Hospital?"

"Yes, you're right, Holmes," I agreed, and with contemplation I added: "It could be rather interesting to go back there..."

. . .

As soon as we arrived to Southampton, and after seeing the crime scene and the briefest moment spent with local constable, who told us basically nothing, we went to Netley.

Its red chapel welcomed us with ringing bells, and my mind was drowning in memories on the course, which I went through here, prescribed for surgeons in the army in 1878.

. . .

We find ourselves roving about the wide building with 138 wards, but Sherlock Holmes obviously knew where he was going. Or, at least, he did look like he knew it.

I was not complaining. Even I had suspect that he was doing it somewhat for me, so I could recall old times.

. . .

"Oh, look who do we have here? John – Hamish – Watson," said one of the old men, who were strolling down the corridor. "The one who wanted to be an army doctor," and stopped himself in front of the Detective, murmuring into his ear: "He never had the ambitious to become a good dentist."

Sherlock's mouth corners twitched up in response to this splendorous information he had just obtained, and also in whisper he replied: "I know."

"Professor Reece?" Watson turned back. "You're still _alive_? I mean...!" he quickly corrected himself, here?"

"Of course, my boy."

"But what are you doing _here_? Aren't you still at the University of London?"

"In these walls there are young bright minds, which need someone to guard them. And especially one – my son Henry."

"Oh, I see."

"And what brings you and... I think this gentleman is with you, or is he not?"

"Yes, he is. My friend-"

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes, sir."

"Oh, not _that _Sherlock Holmes?"

"Since I have not heard of anyone with name like mines, I think yes."

"Well then, nice to meet you, sir – very much in deed. My name is Jefferson Reece – an old professor of your friend here."

"Really?" the Detective turned at me and made a foxy smile, which did not bode well. "Then tell me, professor... was he always so inattentive?"

. . .


	4. Chapter 4

"Your professor is very personable fellow, Watson."

"Ha, that's only because you did not have to spend four years at the University with him, my dear Holmes."

. . .

The case went good, and after some interrogating – from my side, and throwing scalpels against the wall – from Holmes's side, justice has been done, and we could go back to our home.

. . .

"Oh, you are back already?"

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson. The case went quickly."

"Well, I'm not surprised Doctor... And, Mr. Holmes, there are two gentlemen waiting for you upstairs."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

. . .

"Holmes! Finally."

"Lestrade."

"John."

"Alexander!"

"Doctor Campbell."

"Mr. Holmes."

And introducing was done.

Lestrade seemed to come to tell us about some new case he was at his wit's end with – again. And Alexander simply made a visit to see me.

. . .

"Well, gentlemen, I think we shall leave you alone. Our presence is not necessary anyway... Come Alexander."

"But we've got a case, Watson."

"Oh, I am sure you can solve it without my assistance."

"I do indeed... But you won't be capable to write about it, for you will not be there."

"I am convinced, Mr. Holmes that you will initiate John into it later," said Alexander.

"But I...!" he stopped himself in the middle of sentence, and when he saw my questioning look, he cleared his throat and continued with calm voice: "Yes. I will. You may go, of course."

"Thank you. Lestrade."

"Doctor Watson. Doctor Campbell."

"Gentlemen."

And parting was done.

. . .

"No! I don't believe you!"

"He really did."

"You must be joking, John."

"I really am not."

"But... but that is horrible. To let you think he's dead for... _three_ years?! And after that, how can you still be friends?"

"I know," I smiled at Alexander's reaction. "I guess I just have a strange taste in choosing friends. (...) You see, there's one – you probably do not know him – his name's Alexander and he-"

But I did not even finished, for we both burst out laughing.

"Ah, John," he sighed, still struggling the twitching of his mouth, "I missed you, old chap."

"So did I, Alexander. So did I..."

"I always regretted you haven't gone to America with me."

"Yes."

"You know, actually I'm not staying in London for long. I'm going back to New York, and... I was thinking, that maybe... you could go with me. I you want."

"Goodness me! I'm – I'm flattered, of course, but Holmes..."

"Oh, _Holmes_. And what about him? You've just said he's terrible, and untidy, and never do listen to you, and that sometimes you truly want to punch him in the face."

"Well, yes. I do. And he is. He certainly is everything that I have said, but somehow... I feel he needs me."

"Ahh, well then..." he shrugged his shoulders and turned his head away.

"You know what?" I said to perk him up, "I'll think it through."

He looked back at me with cheery smile: "Good."

. . .

"So," I tried to start a conversation with a man, who was now rummaging through a mound of old newspapers, when I found myself once again sitting in the armchair in our shared flat at Baker Street, "the case that Lestrade was here for?"

"Can't you see I'm working on it right now, Watson?" His tone was not very pleasant I could tell. "And do not just sit there! You could give a hand at least."

"Right," I sighted, getting up from my seat, "what are we looking for?"

"Anything that has to do with Italian shoes import," he retorted.

"Fine..."

. . .

"And what about your friend – Doctor Campbell?" he asked me from behind the paper, which – to my great surprise – actually contained something about Italian shoes and the boat which brought them to the City.

"He offered me to go to America with him."

"_What?! _(...)I mean," the Detective realized what he was doing, and immediately lowered his voice, making it low and firm again: "did you accept it?"

"Well, I said I will think it through."

"But you don't intend to go, Watson, do you?"

"I don't know, Holmes. That's why I have said it."

"Oh."

"But I think I'll know till the Saturday lunch."

"Hm."

"And now," I said, pulling out my notebook, "tell me about that case."


	5. Preface

"Holmes, are you ready?"

"Ready for what? You, going to America – leaving me here?"

"Oh, stop it at once. I haven't made the decision yet."

"Right," he concurred and slicked his hair back, "I think we can go."

"Good."

. . .

"Where are we going then?"

"Kensington and Chelsea."

"Oh, the golden Royal Borough."

"Yes. Alexander's family lives near the Palace."

"Hm. It surprises me that not _in_ the Palace," Holmes murmured.

"What?"

"Nothing, Watson."

"If you say so..."

. . .

"John!"

"Alexander," the Doctor smiled upon his old classmate, and accepted the open arms.

With sight at John, hugging another man, Sherlock felt a stab in his limited heart, which even deepened when he realized_ he_ had never hugged Watson. _Stop it! _he thought and without knowing, clenched his fists.

"Welcome," said Campbell and patted John on the back. Then let him go and turned his attention to the Detective: "And welcome you too, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock gave him a brief faint smile, which was rather show of tolerance then sympathy, and after Alexander's sign he went into the house...

* * *

/This was short I know, it's something like preface to _The Lunch_, which I am saving the place for ;) And also I want to thank to all the people who sent me reviews – thank you guys you're keeping me writing! And please do forgive me if I will mess something up - English is not my 1st language/


	6. Chapter 6

We were sitting around the table – eating. And I could not help but feel there was something happening between the two of my friends. Holmes, sitting as straight as ramrod, with brusque, uncaring face, sharp grey eyes like the hardest steel, his overall impression suddenly colder – even arrogant – then usual, and Alexander with steady gaze, fixed on him, answering his questions slowly, without moving a muscle.

The things reached its peak when Holmes started to tell Alexander about a certain Campbell family, which members were mostly convicts, transported from United Kingdom, then slave traders, known especially for their cruelty and low prices, and if it could possibly be – by any chance – the main reason why he went to America – to follow the 'bloody footsteps' of his ancestors.

'Because you see,' said Holmes, 'through every man's veins there circulates an undeniable bit of his forebears.'

I was ready to do something, when all of sudden, there came my deliverance: one of Alexander's elder brothers showed himself in dining room and asked me if I can help him with putting together a list of members of our old cricket team.

With pleasure I accepted and went with him, leaving Holmes and Campbell to that strange conversation of theirs.

. . .

"Oh, you won't full me, Mr. Holmes. Your pupils were all black when John did smile," was the answer of a man, who was now sitting in front of another man who he barely knew, and given the circumstances, he did not even want to – still the things he had known about that man were enough for him to think he was not aware of any of John's attention.

"Why else you would be here, literally _forbidding_ me to take him to America with me?"

"_Because_," started the Detective, not even thinking about the possibility to make some reply to Alexander's previous remarks of his (Sherlock's) feelings to Watson, "You have no right to do so. You haven't seen him for ten years. (...) You don't know him, sir."

"But still I am much more closer to him than you will ever be."

"Really?" Sherlock wondered with unconcealed affectation, "How is it possible then that he never spoke of you?"

The other man's face suddenly grew slightly sad, and with eyes full of disbelief he looked at his opponent: "He didn't?"

"Not – a – single – word."

"Well," Alexander's voice and expression were straight again, "maybe because you never do listen to him."

"That is not true," Sherlock replied briskly, even he was aware of the falsity of his answer.

But Doctor Campbell was aware of it too: "Have you ever wondered that it might hurt him?"

"I would never do anything that could have hurt him."

"Oh, but you've already did. The Reichenbach falls. Don't you remember it, Mrs. Holmes?" He clicked his tongue: "With such a mind like yours..."

This drove deeply into Sherlock's heart. He remembered the three dark years, during which the only reminder of Watson was his face, veiled in sadness, as he searched for his friend at the fall, appearing in Sherlock's dreams for every single night, making him feel guilty even he knew he did the right thing... He looked at the man, who he was now despising with, and said with almost inaudible voice: "I did it to protect him."

"Him?" wondered Campbell, "Or _yourself_?" and with this bitter objection, he raised his left eyebrow.

"Don't you _ever_ dare...!" Sherlock wanted to say (rather hurl) a lot of things, but his manners did not let him to do so. Instead of it he pierced the other man by his stern look, hateful eyes, narrowed to slits.

"I wouldn't, Mr. Holmes. Please calm yourself down." A one little victory for Doctor Alexander Campbell.

They both tried to seem cool and remain level-headed, but sometimes one of them simply could not hold the insensate mask of gentleman and through the genteel, cultivated affronts, let his mood to be shown.

. . .

"It does not matter on what all you will tell me – even if you would use the entire vocabulary of yours. He _will_ go with me – if he wants."

"Yes – if _he_ wants."

. . .


	7. The End

/The port/

"I'm sorry old chap, but you see there are..." John's eyes glanced away, and for a moment they were lost in the thin tall figure of a man, who was standing nearby them, "reasons for me to stay."

"I see..." Alexander also looked at the tall man. "Well then," he sighed, "I cannot say I'm not disappointed, John, but I do understand your reasons. You're very close to his heart, John," Alexander smiled faintly, but his smile was sincere: "And even I'm not quite happy for you being a friend to man like him, I _must_ say he really does appreciate you. (...) So, my good old friend, I guess the only thing that remains to us is to say goodbye..."

Watson casted his eyes down at that remark about Sherlock, but in no time he looked up again and with a smile upon his face said: "Good-bye, Alexander."

"Adieu, Mr. Holmes!" called the Doctor, who was now boarding a ship, which will take him to the continent, after a man who stood at the pier.

Naturally there was no response from Sherlock Holmes, but in his mind he was clear: _Farewell, Doctor Campbell. And never go back._

. . .

"Would you mind to accompany me now to a certain shoe store, and make a visit, which requires the presence of your service revolver?" asked the Detective, when his friend find himself standing once again by his side – the place where he belonged – after saying goodbye to a man that Sherlock hoped he will never see again.

"Anywhere you like, my dear Holmes," he replied, and for a moment, spanning less than a second, there was a flesh of deep emotion for his friend, shining in those magnificent light blue eyes: "Let's go."

Sherlock only smile at his friend, and thought: _Oh, my dearest Watson. One day... One day, when the time will be more amiable I'm going to tell you everything I feel for you..._

* * *

/And once again I want to thank everyone for reading this and sending me reviews: Thank you - love you!/


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